Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  “But you still got no idea who knifed Saul?”

  The boy blinked, then shook his head. “Mr. Calvert, you suggested that someone used the feathers to mislead us. Someone like that is cunning and may not be so easily uncovered.”

  “You might be right.” Tom ran his hand through his hair; he’d left his hat in the woods with the outlaws and he needed a new one. “Well, I’ll find them in any case.”

  “I thought it was your reckoning that Mr. Matthews must have done something to deserve what happened,” the boy said.

  “Oh, I think he must have.” Tom paused to sneeze, then shook his head. “I keep telling you, kid, they aren’t all as pious as they act. But even if Jeremiah tells me to leave, I’ll still sort this out first. Can’t have a murderer just going free.”

  “What about you, Mr. Calvert? Can you go free?”

  “I . . . ,” Tom began, then stopped himself. He glared at the kid. “What is it? It’s like you don’t want her caught.”

  “You said you were certain it was a woman who was wronged who had done it,” Asher accused. “Why not let her have her justice in peace?”

  “Because I can’t be certain. What if I’m wrong and she wants to hurt Mary next?” Tom spread his hands.

  “And if you knew? What then?”

  “I don’t know, kid.”

  The twilight was fading, and the boy’s flash of frustration seemed to go with the light. He let his breath out and smiled. “I am glad you are well, Mr. Calvert. I am glad you were not killed by those bandits.”

  “Me too,” Tom grunted.

  “How did you do it? Kill all those men?”

  “With my bare hands,” Tom replied, holding up his fists.

  Asher snorted. “I suppose you will go to call on Mrs. Black.”

  “I owe her an apology.”

  The boy nodded. “You certainly do.”

  “Don’t go taking her side, now, kid.”

  “The side of decency. You must have an idea what was said after you left. It is no secret that you love her and that she is partial to you,” the boy hissed. “For good Christians, some of these women are downright cruel.”

  Tom grimaced. “I figured.”

  “But they are jealous,” Asher relented, waving a hand. “That is why they bully her.”

  “Jealous of what?”

  “Of Mary. Because of you.”

  “I’m a cripple.”

  “A handsome cripple. At least when you shave. Go on, then. I will not keep you. ‘I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,’” the boy quoted dryly from that silly book of his, turning and starting back toward the house.

  Tom watched him go, trying not to laugh.

  “I found you a girl once, kid,” he called after him. “I can do it again.”

  Asher just waved without looking back.

  Tom grinned and started to limp toward Mary’s house; he was too drained to do anything more than that. Which would be worse: staying in Friendly Field or going? There was guilt now; he didn’t belong. Would it be any better if he went to Des Crozet? He’d have to make a point there not to be recognized, so he’d always be on his guard.

  He didn’t want to be on his guard all the time.

  Well, his future in Friendly Field was in Jeremiah’s hands. And Phillip’s. Thaddeus probably didn’t have much to say. Maybe Holly was wearing him out. At least Friendly Field was getting its money’s worth out of her. These Quakers—well, they weren’t any stranger than anyone else. In fact, they seemed more ordinary the longer he spent here.

  The porch creaked as he climbed the steps, and Mary opened her door before he could even knock.

  Tom went to take his hat off, only he wasn’t wearing one. She didn’t look angry.

  “Evening, ma’am.”

  “Sir.” She rolled her eyes and came out onto the porch, pulling the door shut. “Would you like to sit?”

  “Yes, please.” He sank into one of the wicker chairs, and she perched elegantly in the other. “I wish I could do that,” he noted, gazing at her.

  “What is that, Mr. Smith?”

  “Sit up straight that way.”

  “I think you could if you were inclined.”

  “Not tonight.”

  Her expression softened as she gazed at his neck. “Mercy. What in the world have you been doing?”

  “I went and talked that gang into leaving.”

  Her brows rose. “Did you really?”

  “We won’t see them here,” he assured her. “So that’s one less thing to worry about. But it’s been a long couple days. I’m sure it has for you as well.”

  She wasn’t the type to go looking for pity, but Tom would’ve known even without the kid to tell him. She’d weathered some things while he was gone.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You might have told me where you were going.”

  “I thought you’d worry.”

  “I did worry.”

  He sighed. “I thought you might worry even more.”

  “I might have. Why would any sensible person do that, go looking for those men?” she asked.

  “I thought it was better to make the first move,” Tom said truthfully, “rather than let them do it.”

  “Weren’t you afraid?”

  “I was. But if I’d stayed here and waited, if I’d just hoped the law would come in time, I’d have been afraid then as well. More afraid, even.”

  Mary shook her head. “I cannot fathom your mind.”

  “You wouldn’t want to.”

  “I would, though.”

  “Jeremiah might ask me to leave,” Tom said bluntly, and Mary was taken aback.

  “Would he? Why?”

  “Because I keep making trouble.”

  There were more diplomatic ways to put it, but that was what it came down to. There’d been an awful lot of trouble lately, and Tom had had his fingers in all of it. In Jeremiah’s shoes, he’d have thrown himself out of Friendly Field a while ago.

  “I am sure your intent was to help.”

  “I believe it was,” Tom replied. “But intent doesn’t put supper on the table. It isn’t worth a dime. There’s been a lot of trouble since I came here. I reckon you’d have had most of it whether I came or not, but still . . . I know how it looks, and they aren’t used to it. Jeremiah and Thaddeus. Having dealings with men like me and John Porter. And Saul.” He drummed a finger on the arm of the chair. “It’s the worst time to lose him. I don’t know if he was much of a leader, but it still worries me. Jeremiah and Phillip are steady enough, though. They won’t steer Friendly Field wrong.”

  “We don’t have leaders,” she reminded him gently, smiling.

  Tom was tired, but when Mary was in front of him, he couldn’t possibly pay attention to anything else. He sensed that something wasn’t right. Instead of speaking, he just looked at her. That wasn’t enough, though.

  “What is it?” he prompted. “What are you thinking?”

  There was a flash of frustration, but it was gone almost at once. She looked away from him, glancing out at the fireflies in the field. Then she made what might have been a shrug.

  “I’m angry,” she admitted finally, and she looked a little surprised that the words had made it out.

  Tom swallowed. “I don’t know what to do but to apologize,” he told her honestly. “I’d like to make it up to you—”

  “Not at you,” she said, cutting him off. “Or not just at you.”

  He followed her gaze.

  “Is it Holly?” He was taken aback; he’d thought that he’d gotten that straightened out.

  “No,” she grumbled. “It’s not her. I know she’s only doing what she . . . what she does.” She fell silent, then looked at her hands, which where clenched on her knees. “You know tha
t after Obadiah died, he solicited me.”

  “Thaddeus did?”

  She nodded, and for a moment Tom heard what might have been her teeth grinding.

  “Right away?” He couldn’t help himself; he had to ask.

  “No, no.” She scowled. “He waited before he made his offer of marriage.”

  “Was he a leader at the time? But you said you have no leaders— Was he a . . . spiritual elder at the time?”

  Mary gave him a flat look. “Thaddeus, Jeremiah, and Saul have been leading Friendly Field since I was a girl.”

  “And you turned him down?”

  She looked affronted. “Of course.”

  “He has all the money that the village brings in. All of it. If you’d married him, you would have had it.”

  “For mercy’s sake! I don’t want money.” She glared at him. “And he didn’t want a wife. He— You know what he wanted.”

  “Of course,” Tom replied. “I want it too.”

  Her eyes flashed. “No, Mr. Smith. You do want a wife. He wants a . . .” She trailed off, snorting. “A doll.”

  Tom watched her sit there, seething. She was angry. She saw him looking and tried to glare, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her posture changed, becoming a little less perfect.

  Mary groaned and glanced upward. “Thaddeus does this in front of God and everyone and then preaches virtue on Sunday. And someone’s done murder. And we can’t even sew without needling one another as much as the cloth.”

  Tom gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s frustrating. But I’m no better.”

  “At least you tell the truth.”

  “I don’t, though.”

  “Not even about yourself?”

  He shook his head. “I lie like I breathe. Those men I talked into leaving? It’s not true. I tried to do that, but it didn’t work. So I killed them.”

  Even in the dark, he saw the color leave her face.

  “It’s true,” he added, answering her unspoken question.

  “Why?” The word came out sounding weak.

  “They meant to come here. And I believe they would have done a lot of harm. So I made my choice. Then I came here and lied to you about it because”—he sagged in the chair—“because I knew you wouldn’t like it. But I don’t like lying to you. So I guess I can’t win.”

  For a minute they were both quiet.

  “What does it feel like, to have done that?” Mary asked finally.

  Tom frowned. “There’s a couple in the past that I regret.” He scratched his cheek tiredly. “Not this bunch, though.” He pointed at the bruises on his throat. “Suffice it to say they’d have done the same for me. And they would have, when they were done with me. John Porter never had any plans to let me live.”

  Someone blew out a candle in the next house over. There weren’t many windows still glowing.

  “Seems like ever since the boat, I just make a mess wherever I go.” Tom sat up. “I’m sure Jeremiah and your mother are afraid I’ll just lead you into sin. They’re right.”

  “That does not concern me,” Mary replied, joining him in looking out at the night.

  Tom was surprised. “It doesn’t?”

  “If everyone else is free to just talk about following God instead of doing it, why shouldn’t I be as well?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tom had never given much thought to the notion of things turning out all right, maybe because he didn’t have a good idea what all right was supposed to look like. After all, everyone liked to talk about all the things they’d do when they got a chance or after some obstacle was overcome—but there was always something else. The fellow who thought he’d have everything he needed when he had ten horses would inevitably realize what he really needed was twenty. Some other problem would come along, some other reason not to be content.

  So what was the point? Why chase something that wouldn’t ever be real?

  He could think of a couple of reasons, but there were more important things to consider. It was odd that gossip worried him more than outlaws and murder, but there were a number of things about Tom’s life that he thought people might find odd.

  It was early enough that it was still dark outside, and that was good. It meant there was still time for him to make a stealthy escape. He didn’t want to; in fact, leaving Mary’s bed was the last thing he wanted to do. Even opening his eyes was a struggle, but he did it anyway.

  She was gone.

  Frowning, he sat up and listened, but the house was dead quiet. He touched the sheets where she had been and found them cool. Tom threw off the covers and got up, nearly tripping over the clothes strewn on the rug. He dressed quickly, then picked up Mary’s clothes and folded them. He doubted anyone would come up here and see the room, but anything was possible. He wasn’t worried about his own good name because he’d never had one, but Mary’s still mattered. Where had she gone, though? He didn’t want to steal away without saying goodbye, but Mary would probably prefer that to being discovered. She’d been pretty bold the night before, but she’d also been angry. Things tended to look and feel different in the light of morning.

  There would be Quakers up and about even this early, mainly wives baking bread for the day. Tom slipped out of the house and hurried away in the dark. He didn’t simply make his way back to the house he shared with Asher; that would be too obvious if someone saw him. He struck out east, making a wide loop around the houses. Now if someone saw him limping along, they would think he was just returning from one of his morning strolls.

  To his surprise, he found Asher awake, perched on the bench that wanted to be a sofa. The boy was dressed for the day, and it looked as though he’d already bathed.

  He looked up, startled, as Tom came through the door.

  “Morning, kid.”

  Tom started the business of making tea. Asher had probably noticed that Tom hadn’t come back last night, and he could be a worrier. Maybe he’d thought that Tom had run off again. Well, there was no danger of that. Not unless Jeremiah decided to throw him out of Friendly Field. Even then Tom wouldn’t go far. He’d stay close to Mary as long as she didn’t object.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  Asher shook his head, then seemed to pull himself together. He was always a little off in the morning, when he was still groggy. Of course, if bathing in cold water hadn’t woken him up, nothing would.

  Tom prepared some eggs. They had a few of Mrs. Heller’s biscuits, which were a day old but still good. With plenty of money to throw around and no shortage of good hotels, he’d eaten some good meals, but the Quakers ate well too.

  Mary could be upset over their hypocrisy. Tom couldn’t blame her for that, but things weren’t any different anywhere else. Why wouldn’t Quakers have weaknesses and vices? Well, it wasn’t the vices that she held against them; it was that they wanted to pretend they didn’t have them, and judge the people who did. This community had hanged a woman years ago, and now they wanted to act squeamish at the idea of outlaws being strung up.

  Of course it bothered Mary. It probably bothered them all.

  He was still a little hurt that she’d left without saying anything, though. What did she get up to in the mornings? He didn’t know; she might have some responsibilities like feeding chickens, or maybe this was when she bathed. That seemed plausible.

  “Are you well, Mr. Calvert?” Asher asked the words dryly.

  “Well as I’ll ever be. I think I’ll be working the fields with you soon.”

  He knew perfectly well that Jeremiah wouldn’t ask him to leave. Tom kept telling people it was a possibility because he didn’t want to look like he was taking Friendly Field’s hospitality for granted.

  “I look forward to it.”

  “How do you like farming?”

  “Compared to driving a wagon?”

  “Sur
e.”

  “I like it a good deal better,” Asher replied, “though I suppose that might be because I no longer have to worry about you succumbing to fever, Mr. Calvert.”

  “I’m glad I’m not worried about that as well.” Tom shook his head. “I did hate not being able to think clearly.”

  “Are you thinking clearly now?”

  “For a minute or two before I met Mary, I like to think I was.”

  They ate, tidied the house, and ventured out. The kid’s head was somewhere else, but Tom was no different. The sun was out, and so were the Quakers.

  “Peace be with thee,” he said to the fourth person that morning, returning another wave. They weren’t all as angry with him as Jeremiah, and even Jeremiah wasn’t angry at him. He was angry about all of it; Tom was just one piece of this mess. Maybe Jeremiah could live with compromise, but all this lately had made him face it. Maybe his anger wasn’t much different from Mary’s.

  One couldn’t be cross about anything on such a pretty day, but Tom suspected it wasn’t so much the day as the night before that had him in a good humor.

  He spotted Mary, wearing the same sort of dress as always, but looking particularly radiant. She was with Mrs. Young and Mrs. Heller, making for Mrs. White’s house to get about the day’s sewing.

  She saw him and froze, but only for a moment. The look of panic came and went so quickly that Tom might’ve missed it, but she mustered her courage and, with impressively little pink in her cheeks, detached herself from the others to join him.

  Tom rolled up his sleeves and walked out to meet her, stopping several paces short.

  “Peace be with thee,” he said mildly.

  “And also with you,” she replied.

  There were too many people, and it wasn’t an option to go somewhere private.

  “Are you well?” That was what the kid always said; it seemed appropriate.

  “Very well,” she replied. “Mr. Smith, have you ever done anything that left you surprised at yourself afterward?”

  “Too many times,” he admitted. “I got my share of regrets.”

  “I don’t mean regret,” she replied, and he let his breath out in relief. “But on occasion I feel as though I should take time to breathe.”